Under the Guise of Righteousness
by Robert JF
Summary: To do what is right is to assume a state of righteousness. Sometimes, doing what feels right isn't enough.


_Authors note; Some of you might remember me as Dalzeil - for my past fan fiction, see my profile. Please review this story if you have any comments/criticism; I hope you enjoy reading it._

-

In retrospect, he didn't know why he did it. He was unable to convince himself that any action of his leading up to that one moment of realization was right, though they were done under the thin guise of righteousness. 

Julian Robotnik sat alone in the war room, his form illuminated by the soft light of computer screens. His head was cradled in his arms, his unmoving eyes fixed on the metallic floor before him. Eyes that had seen the destruction of cities and watched as its citizens were rendered dead. Eyes that had not felt tears for close to a decade.

A half empty bottle of scotch sat on the table beside him, next to a moist glass that lay on its side. Lifting his head from his hands wearily, the dictator picked it up. Holding it in front of him, he read the faded label for the eighth time that night.

_Julian Robotnik, Minister of War  
Hero of Mobius, second class._

_For faithful service in our time of greatest need,  
Mobius thanks you._

_Presented by King Maximillian Acorn  
7th of February, 3455_

He found it a bitter irony that he was drinking from the bottle he had once reserved for when the war was at an end. Found it painful that he was drinking from it at his lowest hour. It was intended to be a celebration of victory; a toast to his success as Lord of all before him. Such thoughts had since faded into distant memory.

Carefully placing the bottle in its original position on the table beside his throne, he slowly rose to his feet. Lifting his eyes, he looked around the wide, circular room.

_There are no windows in this place_, he thought to himself. _Why aren't there any windows in this place?_

And then he remembered. Walking to the eastern wall of the room, he placed his gloved hand against a tiny, reinforced porthole hidden between two giant screens and wiped away the thick grime. He had long forgotten why he had put this one window where he did, but for now it was of no consequence. In essence, nothing was.

Moving his head closer to the window and looking out, his eyes took in the Robotroplian landscape; its many lights a smooth mirror to the twinkling stars above. As his eyes widened, he realized that he had never stopped to look at what he had created since confining himself to his fortress of solitude nine years previously; that he had never gone for a walk. Had never taken in the smells and noises of his work – of his creation. Who then, was able to see – to appreciate – the fruits of his labor?

The freedom fighters had, on many occasions. But they never stayed. They always retreated to their home, hidden amongst the trees of the great forest. Snivley had, but he never commented on it; never praised it, never loved it – if anything, he merely _tolerated_ it, and saw it as a means to an end. The citizens of Mobotropolis had – but they would never appreciate it. Could never appreciate it. With hearts and minds of metal, they would never be able to love what he, their master, had given them.

_They would never have appreciated it anyway_, thought Robotnik bitterly. _They opposed me at every turn, at every reform I struggled to introduce. Machine is not the way of the Mobian._

Was he really that wrong, then? Was everything he had done wrong from the very beginning? Was anything he had ever done _right_?

It had felt right. It seemed right. He remembered the sleepless nights he endured before the coup, planning every robot, every aspect of what he wanted Mobius to be. He had painstakingly worked to purge every system of errors and trim every operation until it was at its most efficient. He had done it all, chasing a far off goal of what was right.

Yet he was the one who crushed every building; he was the one who destroyed every garden. It was he who had ripped screaming children from the arms of their mothers – he who had removed the free will of every living creature before him.

He had crafted the weapons, and he had fired them. The work of every robot was, in effect, his own. With his will, he had destroyed that of others. Was it right? In the end, had his visions been fulfilled? Were Mobius and its citizens better off?

And then it hit him; like a six ton block of metal.

_What have I done?_ He thought to himself. _When did I lose sight of my… humanity? When did I become a monster?_

Reflecting upon his past, he was unable to give himself an answer. There was no specific, well defined point that he could identify where he had transformed into what he was today.

_Maybe I didn't change, then. Maybe I have always been evil._

He sighed, and turned his back to the tiny window. The night sky did not make him feel any better, nor did it help answer any of his questions. It only served to remind him of what he helped destroy.

Sitting back in the throne at the center of the room, Robotnik looked at the now empty chair where Snivley's familiar form once sat. He had sat in that chair for days at a time on many occasions, but Robotnik never realized it until now – never noticed how hard he had worked. _You don't know what you've got till it's gone…_

He was always obedient, Snivley. Not once did he defy Robotnik, or slack off in his duties. Even as Robotnik had leveled the laser pistol to his skull and squeezed the trigger, he had stood there without resisting, without asking 'why'. With tears streaming down his pasty-white, tiny face, he had gone to his death silently; obediently.

Robotnik had no idea why he did it, and it was probable that Snivley had even less. As he woke up that morning, it just seemed right. He felt like it _had_ to be done, and that somehow, Snivley would benefit.

_Just like every other damn thing I have ever done…_

He had killed the last person who truly knew him for who he was. He had killed his last – his first and only – faithful, living subject. He had proven to himself that everything he ever did resulted in death.

And it hurt. It really hurt.

Robotnik couldn't take it anymore. As the stars outside continued to twinkle through the thick, stifling clouds of smoke that hung above Robotropolis, he placed his bald head in his hands and wept.

For the first time in nine years, his eyes felt what it was to cry.

-

Resurfacing, Robotnik blinked wearily, rubbing his eyes as he did so. He had fallen asleep without realizing it.

Tiredly, he raised his head from its slumped position and looked around once again. He was still in the war room, sitting in his mechanical throne. The computer screens along the walls still blinked with various symbols and figures, and Snivley's chair was still empty.

And yet, something was different.

Looking towards the eastern wall of the room, between the two large screens, Robotnik squinted. Bringing a gloved hand to his face to cover his eyes, he noticed a thin ray of sunlight had broken through the once-grime covered porthole and flowed into the room, basking everything in its radiance.

_It's beautiful…_ thought Robotnik. Removing his hand from his eyes, he watched in silence as tiny particles of dust drifted through the golden beam, catching the light as they went.

As he looked, memories that were once lost drifted back to him. He remembered that he once enjoyed watching the sun rise; watching the orange glow fade softly into brilliant gold as the morning dew slowly evaporated off the royal lawns. He remembered carefully planning every aspect of his fortress, and laughing to himself as he realized that he had forgotten to include a window. He remembered drawing a circle where the porthole now lay, and reassuring himself that now he would never miss a sunrise.

But the memories didn't stop there; as the morning sun warmed his face, instances and recollections of his past came flooding back to him.

He remembered growing up in a distant land, and playing with his childhood friends. He recalled that he once aspired to create machines and robots not to destroy, but to help advance society.

He remembered laughing; being happy, being sad, being angry – and crying. He remembered what it was to _feel_ – and what it was to love.

As the sun rose that morning, for just a few moments – a few sweet moments – Julian Robotnik felt human once again. He realized that he hadn't always been evil – and that once, he did good things.

_Oh, to turn back history…_ he thought as the sun rose further above the Robotroplian skyline, causing the golden beam to fade into nothing. _If only I could turn back the clock…_

Sadly, it was impossible. He knew he would never be able to go back and change what he had done. He knew that it was too large a task to reverse the destruction he had inflicted upon Mobius, and to put back together the families he had ripped apart. He would never be able to show the freedom fighters who he really was.

He would never be able to bring back Snivley, and apologize.

No. He would never be able to turn back and face the world he had crushed with an iron fist. It was impossible to undo what had been done; to take back all that had been said. There was only one solution.

If you are unable to turn back the clock, prevent it from going forwards.

He knew it was the right solution. He knew it was the _only_ solution. And unlike all the other decisions he had made, he knew that this one was final.

Shifting uncomfortably on his throne, he removed his laser pistol from his hip. He considered the object for a moment, slowly rotating between his hands and admiring every little detail of its construction; every deliberate join, the exact, sinister curl of the trigger. This was the weapon by which Snivley had fallen: Robotnik felt it was only fitting that it be the weapon by which Mobius was redeemed.

A final salute to Snivley, his faithful servant; an apology to every family he had destroyed; a resignation to the Freedom Fighters and all they stood for. This solution was many things, he reflected; each one just as important as the others.

As he put the pistol to his skull, he wondered how Mobius would remember him. Would they remember the good things he did, and the good person he once was? Would they realize that he wasn't evil? Would they remember Snivley?

_Will they realize that I only ever did what I thought was right?_

_-  
_

An age away, nothingness faded into time.

As the sun rose once again the next day, casting a golden ray of light through the porthole and onto the bloody face of Julian Robotnik, the once proud Overlander didn't stir. He would never know if Mobius would recover from his actions, or if anything that he did during his life would be seen as good.

In death, he was free from all earthly consequences and questions, and whatever answers they would bring. Nonetheless, the bottle that sat beside him on the small table – his toast to victory – mocked him in silence:

_For faithful service in our time of greatest need,  
Mobius thanks you._


End file.
